


My Neighbor's Garden is a Spot of Beauty

by RainbowRiddler



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: AU, Angie is a holiday nut, F/F, Gardening, Gardening AU, Oops, Uh... It's kind of heavily emotional now, angie is seriously just being a turd, crop circle au, crop circles, flirty Peggy like what?, how to romance your neighbor, modern day AU, not aliens, sorry - Freeform, this got out of control quickly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-30 08:11:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3929437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainbowRiddler/pseuds/RainbowRiddler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all starts when Angie makes some miniature crop circles in her neighbor's yard to get her to cut her grass...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crop Circles

Peggy's away a lot, working long hours at the “office”.  Usually, she leaves just after dawn, and doesn’t get home until after dusk.  Oftentimes, she even ends up working overnight for a day or three.  As such, she doesn't really get to cut her grass all that often.  It tends to be once every few weeks.

Angie, on the other hand, always has an immaculate yard.  She's been really into landscaping and outdoor decorating since she was a little girl, so it's all decked out with a brick outdoor patio, a small fountain, and a grill.  Her grass is always perfectly cut, perfectly trimmed, and perfectly edged.  And so are the bushes (flowered or otherwise).  Her flower gardens are always tended, and if her trees get a bit overgrown, she trims them back.

Angie’s back yard connects with Peggy’s, though, and she gets tired of looking at the overgrown grass.  She considers cutting it herself, but she's had a bad experience or two, doing that without permission.  The problem is, she's somehow always at work when Peggy has a day or two at home, so it’s not as if she has _time_ to get permission.

So instead, she decides to have a little fun with it, and give Peggy a little extra incentive to get the job done.

On days when she's sure Peggy isn't coming home until at least the wee hours of the morning, she heads across the yard--right around dusk or a bit later to avoid being spotted by other neighbors--with a few of her own lawn tools and a board.  In the dark of the night, she tamps and trims the overgrown grass into designs of things like stars and jellyfish--even Elvis Presley that one time!  And she always chuckles to herself for a few days once her work is finished, especially because the designs are typically cut away in the day or two after she's put them there.

Interestingly, Peggy never comes by to ask if she's seen anything, and Angie will be damned if she's just going to offer it up.

* * *

 

Then, after a few months of her game, Angie makes her way to Peggy's yard once more.

She doesn't expect a flashlight to click on and nearly blind her.

She doesn't expect to see Peggy sitting in a patio chair--one of her OWN PATIO CHAIRS--and sipping a glass of wine.

Angie is frozen.  She can't seem to get any words out, and Peggy just sits there, staring her down with that expectant look.

"Well?" the Englishwoman asks, her voice soft as it drifts through the relative darkness.

Angie’s mouth works soundlessly for a time before she manages to croak out, "I just...wanted to see the look on your face.”

Peggy leans forward in the chair she occupies, coming into the flashlight beam just enough for Angie to make out her features.  “Is it everything you’d hoped?” she hisses, her menacing glare made even more terrifying by the shadows stretching across her face from the flashlight.

And for once in her life, Angie has nothing to say.

Nothing except, “Are you gonna call the cops or something?”

The look of anger vanishes from Peggy’s face, and she looks almost wounded.  She leans away from the flashlight beam.  Then, a hand passes through the shaft of light, the perfectly manicured nails glinting red.  “Get on with it,” Peggy says, and Angie can’t find a trace of anger in it no matter how hard she tries.

“Get on…with…” She motions to the board and the rake and her other tools.  She’s uncertain until Peggy’s hand flashes through the glow again, indicating the yard in a sweeping motion, before the flashlight is clicked off.

And the feeling that blooms in her chest sets a grin on her face that she’s sure Peggy can see even in the dark.  At least the woman can’t see the flush on her cheeks, Angie muses as she gets to work.

It isn’t until she’s about half way finished that Angie tries to examine the situation.  She can’t seem to get the pleasant flush to leave her face, and she isn’t entirely sure of the cause.

She wonders if it’s because she’s been caught, but the absence of any real feeling of shame quickly crosses that off her list.

She considers her mild attraction to her neighbor, but she is far from a blushing school girl.  She knows how to handle her crushes!

She just doesn’t know how to handle her crush staying outside to watch her make crop circles.

A glance over her shoulder tells Angie that Peggy hasn’t moved.  She’s still sitting in the patio chair stolen from Angie’s yard, an empty wine glass in her hand.  She’s still watching Angie rake and trim and stomp the grass into place.

And Angie ignores it all valiantly.  She ignores the burning sensation between her shoulder blades where she’s positive Peggy is staring.  She ignores the inquisitive tilt of the woman’s head when she switches tools.  She ignores the shifting she can hear as she’s sure Peggy is trying to keep the feeling in her legs.

But even ignoring the woman, she can’t keep the smile off her face.

Because Peggy stayed.


	2. Kokopelli

V 1.01

 

Peggy is stunned when she wakes the next morning and peers out the window to see what Angie had pressed into her yard.  Her breath stutters, and she finds that she can’t quite catch it for several moments.

“Kokopelli…” she whispers in wonder, almost not believing her own eyes—her breath fogging the window as she presses her head against it.

Her eyes lift to the rosy-colored house across the yard and then return to the familiar design.

“Kokopelli,” she mutters again, the edge of melancholy in her words accompanied by a softly hysterical chuckle and a slightly sad grin.

She marvels at the strange coincidence, because there’s no way Angie could actually _know_ what Kokopelli means to her.

Peggy casts another wary glance to the pink Victorian across the yard.

_Is there?_

She spends several moments staring across the yard, contemplating what her neighbor may or may not know about her, before she pushes away from the window and sighs at herself.  “It doesn’t matter,” she says resolutely, though her eyes wander back to the window and the yard beyond.

“It doesn’t matter!” she growls at herself, but even as she moves across her room to finish getting ready for work, her hand reaches for the telephone.

 

* * *

 

The sound of Angie’s groggy, “ _H’lo?_ ” through the receiver makes Peggy wince guiltily.  She knows it’s early.  She even wants to apologize for it, because calling at—she peeks at her alarm clock—6:03 AM is wildly discourteous of her, especially considering how late Angie stayed up the night before.

She _wants_ to apologize, but all that comes out is, “How did you know?”

 “ _Uh…_ ” Angie grunts on the other end of the line.  “ _Huh?_ ”

Peggy wants to kick herself.  She wants to apologize and hang up and pretend she didn’t call her neighbor at the crack of dawn.  “Kokopelli,” she blurts out in clarification.  “How did you know?”

“ _Oh_ ,” is Angie’s muffled reply, and she goes quite for a long moment after a sleepy hum.

Silence stretches as Peggy anticipates Angie’s reply.

Until she hears her snore over the line.

“Angie?” she tries.  “Angie?”

She hangs up when another light snore reaches her, glad that she hasn’t interrupted Angie’s sleep quite as badly as she thought.

She needed to get ready for work, anyway, and stop worrying about this Kokopelli business.

 

* * *

 

A short while later—showered, dressed, and made up for the day—Peggy slides into the driver’s seat of her blue Jeep, turns to inspect the back seat—one can never be too careful, after all—and fastens herself in.  A moment later, she reaches to adjust the rearview mirror, years of driving teaching her—with no small amount of exasperation—that she never sits in quite the same position when she’s behind the wheel.

She freezes when her pinky brushes the cord holding a small wind chime.  Almost reverently, she caresses its form—a Kokopelli, spun from glass.  She glides her fingers along the hunched back to the tiny glass tubes that hang from its back, bottom, legs, and flute.

A gift—her very first gift—from her late husband, Steve.

And now, to receive another Kokopelli as her first gift from Angie... If she didn’t know better, she might think it was some sort of sign.

But Peggy isn’t so sure that she _does_ know better, especially when she finds herself removing the Kokopelli chime from its place on her rearview mirror.  She takes a moment to regard the piece, a soft smile gracing her features, and then steps out of her Jeep to walk across the yards and leave the chime dangling on the knob of Angie’s back door.

She’s sure to find it there.

It isn’t until she’s back in her Jeep, and well on her way to work, that Peggy notices the lightness in her heart and the smile that won’t leave her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my...  
> This took quite a while.  
> Sorry.  
> More to come.


	3. Simple Gifts

V 1.01

 

Angie wakes to the phone repeating a _disconnected call_ service message in the depths of her blankets and scrambles to fish it out.  She hangs up when she finally finds it, the timer flashing _00:53:37_ beneath the name _PEGGY CARTER._   She doesn’t really remember the phone call, and wonders if she called Peggy in her sleep or if Peggy called her.

She clunks the handset to her face, and hopes _Peggy_ was the one who called _her._   The last thing she wants to do is explain a strange phone call to her neighbor right after getting caught making crop circles in her yard.

At least _that_ had ended well enough, Angie muses, and as she remembers the night before.  Even now, thinking back on the thrill of Peggy watching her work sets the butterflies in her stomach all aflutter.

“Knock it off, Martinelli,” Angie tells herself.  She rolls onto her stomach to place the phone in its cradle, and continues to roll until her legs drop off the side of the bed and her feet meet the floor.  She stretches as she stands, grinning at the sweet burn in her muscles, and then bounces off to the kitchen to make some coffee and begin her day.

Several minutes later, Angie pauses—a steaming mug of fresh coffee in hand—as a melodic tinkling stops her halfway through the door leading from the kitchen to the back patio.

“That’s…” _weird_ , she finishes silently, jiggling the door to hear the tinkling again.

“What’s…” she shakes the door a bit more, the sound almost fairy-like in its daintiness.

She moves outside—that’s where it’s coming from, she thinks—and peeks around to the outer doorknob.

“Oh,” Angie sighs, and her breath catches somewhere in her chest.  She steps fully around the door, eyes locked on the tiny glass sculpture hanging from her doorknob, and crouches low to gently place her coffee mug on the brick of the patio.  She leans forward, her knees coming to rest on the brick, as well.  It’s a wind chime, she realizes, reaching out to carefully slide it off the knob and into her hand.

She smiles as she admires the piece, recognizing it as the Kokopelli from Peggy’s car even though she’s only seen it in passing a time or two.

The swell of happiness in her chest as she runs a finger along the delicately crafted chimes makes her hands shake, and her face tingles with a warmth she can’t quite place.  Or can she, she wonders, turning and tilting her head to look towards Peggy’s house.  A moment later, she bashfully looks back to the Kokopelli chime in her hand.

She’ll hang it above the sink, she decides as she stands.  In the window, where Peggy will be able to enjoy it, still.  And so, with the tiny wind chime cradled in her hands, she heads back inside to hang it

Then promptly rushes back outside to collect her coffee from the patio floor.


	4. Cookout Comforts

Peggy pulls into her driveway, parking her Wrangler with a light jerk.  It’s barely past noon, but she’s exhausted—and really, she’s never been happier to have Labor Day off from work.  Trips to the cemetery, to visit Steve’s grave, always wear her down emotionally, and she tends to have a hard time getting through the rest of the day.

 _Steve,_ she mourns silently, thoughts of him prompting her to look guiltily to the garage.

They’d spent so little of their lives together, but it felt, to Peggy, as if the bulk of that time had been spent working in the garage.  And, _oh_ , how she’d enjoyed every moment of it.  The smiles, the touches, the teasing, the smell of him after a day’s work…

With a thick swallow, she rests her forehead on the steering wheel, refusing to let any tears well in her eyes.  She’s cried enough today, she tells herself, and then throws her head back to collect her things and climb out of the Jeep.

  

* * *

 

Inside is no better for her, as there are reminders of Steve everywhere.

She closes her eyes against it all and, with a weary sigh, moves to the luxurious, red chaise, flopping down dramatically.

Once upon a time, she had used it as a reading chair—a small space all her own where she could sit and drink up her husband’s presence as he sat on the couch.  Now, with his passing, it has become a small zone of comfort for her.  She often imagines she can still feel Steve there with her, and often uses the sensation to ground herself against the almost deafening silence in her home.

She’s closing her eyes to do just that when she hears the telephone ringing, a shrill chirrup from the base sitting just across the room.  She couldn’t care less, she decides, settling more firmly into the cushions of the chaise lounge.

The ringing stops eventually, though Peggy hears the base beep to indicate the answering machine is relaying its message to the caller.  Then, a second beep sounds and…

“ _Peggy!  Peggy, pick up!_ ”                                                                               

It’s Angie, Peggy realizes, and scoots up on her seat.

“ _Peggy, I know you’re in there!  I just watched you go inside, like, three minutes ago!  Peggy!_ ”

Peggy’s eyebrows draw together with the effort of ignoring the answering machine and Angie’s bubbly voice.

“ _Peggy!  PEGGY!_ ” Angie growls.  “ _Peggy, pick up!  Peg!  Peggy!_ ”

Good Lord, Peggy thinks, opening her eyes to stare exasperatedly towards the phone.

“ _…Are you in the bathroom?  If you are, I understand, I can just call back in a few minutes.  Or are you showering?  You’ve been gone a long time today, so…_ ”

 _Oh dear…_   Peggy scrambles off the chaise while Angie continues babbling about the decency (or indecency) of answering the phone while naked.  But goodness, listening to her neighbor prattle on makes her want to laugh, though she still feels like crying her eyes out—and damn it all if it isn’t the most confusing feeling in the world.

So choking down a watery chuckle, and pointedly ignoring Angie speculating if she’s the type of person to answer the phone while naked, Peggy snatches the phone from its cradle.  “ _Yes_ , Angela?” she sighs into the receiver, relieved, at least, to have stopped the increasingly inappropriate rambling.  “Is there something I can help you with?”  She pushes through her exhaustion, straining her voice to sound as stern and irritated as she can manage.

Though, apparently, it isn’t enough to deter Angie.  “ _Peggy, hey!  You should come over!_ ”

The invitation is a sudden surprise, and catches Peggy off guard, as they haven’t spoken since the Kokopelli incident two months ago.

 “Oh, Angie,” Peggy sighs, both mystified and alarmed to find herself feeling nervous.  “I would love to, but I’ve got a ton of work to do.”

“ _Well, that’s a shame,_ ” Angie says, sounding openly disappointed, though she perks right back up.  “ _Any chance I could tempt you with a wine cooler or two?_ ”

“I really shouldn’t.”

“ _I’ll feed you._ ”

The simple promise of food has Peggy casting a grim look to her kitchen.  She’s lost this battle and she knows it.

 

* * *

 

Peggy has barely made it three steps out her back door before Angie is waving a stainless steel spatula at her from across the yard.

“I knew you couldn’t resist food!” she hollers, and Peggy gets the feeling she truly _had_ known.  Not at all surprising, considering her husband’s acquaintanceship with Angie’s grandmother and her recipe book.

Again, echoes of her life with Steve bring her up short, and she stops just before reaching Angie’s brick-laid patio.  Her stomach flips unpleasantly, and she has to close her eyes against the sensation.  She takes a deep breath and wonders _what on_ _earth_ she’s doing, inserting herself into a potentially precarious social situation when her day has already been too much.

She should have just stayed home.

She should have just ignored Angie’s voice over the machine…

“Hey,” Angie says from beside her, voice gentle and soothing as her fingers rest softly against the small of Peggy’s back.  “You okay?”

Peggy takes a deep, shaky breath and rubs at her forehead in an attempt to ease the pain just behind her eyes, “I just…”  She won’t cry, she tells herself, heaving a deep sigh and shaking her head.  “It’s been a long day.”

 “C’mon.”

Peggy doesn’t fight when Angie guides her to one of the patio chairs and presses her into it by her shoulders.  She doesn’t fight when, all at once, Angie’s lean arms wrap around her head, the side of her face held firmly against Angie’s chest.   And she doesn’t fight the strange sense of calm that overtakes her at the sound of Angie’s heartbeat in her ear.

She closes her eyes and actually finds herself relaxing against Angie, savoring the closeness.  And how strange, she considers, that she should feel such an intimacy with a woman she’s spoken to all of four times.  Even so, she relishes the tenderness of the embrace.

“You sit tight and relax, English,” Angie whispers into Peggy’s ear, and just as swiftly as she’d swooped in to get Peggy settled, she flits back to the grill to tend the burgers and hotdogs she has cooking.  Peggy watches her, dazed in a pleasant sort of way, and sips at the _blackberry breezer_ she can’t actually recall being given.

 “I hope you’re not a _strictly sausage_ kind of gal,” Angie says several minutes later, and only then does Peggy realize she’s been staring, “ ‘cause all I’ve got are burgers and dogs.”

Peggy shakes herself slightly.  “Oh, I’m not picky,” she replies, baffled by the mirth that twinkles in Angie’s eyes as she plates up a burger and a hotdog.

“Good to know,” is murmured through a smirk, and after a second plate is prepared, Angie leaves the grill to take a seat beside Peggy.  “Here you go,” she says, slipping a plate into Peggy’s hands.  Peggy offers her thanks quietly, and the conversation drops while they eat.

 

* * *

 

By the time their plates are empty, the silence is dipping towards awkward and uncomfortable, and the quiet between them weighs on Peggy.  Even though it comes as no surprise, she can’t help feeling like there’s something she should be saying.  _But what,_ she frets.  And so, hoping to find an answer, she casts a sidelong glance at Angie, surprised to find her hostess staring at her rather thoughtfully.

“What is it?” Peggy asks, turning to face Angie more fully.

Angie shakes her head, as if to dismiss Peggy’s concerns.  “Nothing.”  Her gaze turns oddly affectionate—hopeful, even—inciting a sudden bloom of warmth in Peggy’s chest that leaves her gaping.  “I just… I wanted to thank you,” she says, jerking her head towards her kitchen window, “for the gift you left me.”

Peggy follows Angie’s lead and looks to the window, though at first, she can’t make out what she’s looking at.  But a moment later, she sees the familiar shapes and colors of a kokopelli wind chime—the very same one she’d hung on Angie’s door two months ago—glinting in the sunlight.

And for the first time in a long time, even as she’s choking back a delighted sob, Peggy feels content


	5. The Jack-O-Patch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PUMPKIN FIGHT

 

Angie finds herself closer to Peggy than she’s ever been after Labor Day, though, admittedly, that’s mostly by design.

She’d been so pleased with Peggy’s company over Labor Day lunch that she’s started cooking out more often, _specifically_ to lure Peggy over with the promise of food she doesn’t have to cook.  Most times it works, and Peggy comes tromping across the yards to join her on the patio.  Once or twice, she’s even come over without any prompting, sitting quietly at the glass-top table as Angie tosses a grin at her to reassure her of her welcome.

They always chat about simple things, Angie more than happy to talk the hind legs off a donkey when Peggy can’t seem to find anything to say.  She’s always had the gift of gab, after all, and she certainly doesn’t mind using it to keep Peggy staring at her in silent wonder.

Peggy starts waving at her in passing.  It had been tentative at first, as if Peggy truly weighed the decision each and every time they noticed one another coming or going, but quickly turned into an easy gesture between _friends_.

And damn it if Angie’s stomach doesn’t do happy little flips at the thought.  Friends with Peggy.  Or _almost_ friends.  Whatever it is, she’s not about to let it go.

Luckily, she’s got a plan for that.

That, and about 40 pumpkins from her cousin Vincenzio.

She spends the better part of the week carving them and cooking up the seeds.  Her wrists cramp every so often, but she doesn’t mind, just takes a break and has a snack.  Then, after five days and twice as many generic painkillers, Angie has an army of pumpkins carved with everything from ghosts, to cats, to witches and back.

That evening, she fits them all with large Christmas lights—because she’s too practical spend twenty minutes lighting 40 candles every night—and arranges them across the back yards.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _You’re ridiculous_ ,” Peggy tells her over the phone at 10:46 that night.  “ _You are absolutely, utterly ridiculous_.”

“Is that a compliment?” fishes Angie, sure the smirk carries through with her voice.  She can’t help but chuckle when Peggy’s half-heartedly exasperated grunt makes it through the line.  “Do you like them?” she tries, switching gears.

Then, quietly, “They’re lovely, Angela.”

 

* * *

 

It’s two days past Halloween, and the pumpkins have been out just over a week, when Angie practically skips over to Peggy’s back door.  She pounds on the wood with her fist, calling for her neighbor to open up. 

“I’m coming,” she barely hears from inside.

“Hurry up!”

When the door swings open, Angie is practically bouncing out of her skin, an excited grin plastered to her face and two baseball bats tucked under her arm.

Peggy eyes them critically.  “Angie, no,” she says flatly.

“Angie, _yes_!” Angie fires back with a manic glint in her eye.  She grabs Peggy’s wrist and drags her outside saying, “C’mon, English.  Live a little.”

Peggy is hauled to the very center of their private pumpkin patch—the jack o’patch, Angie had dubbed it—and a baseball bat is unceremoniously shoved into her hands.  Then, Angie skips away and immediately gives hers a hefty swing, driving the barrel right into one of the pumpkins with a satisfying **crack-a-thunk**!  “Check it out, Peggy!  I’m in a rock band!”  Another good whack follows her declaration, and pumpkin chunks go flying through the air.

Peggy lets the _Smashing Pumpkins_ joke slide, though she still eyes Angie suspiciously.  “What, all out of cricket jokes?”

“Hardly,” Angie snorts.  “But you _are_ holding a lethal weapon,” she reminds Peggy, tapping the end of her bat with her own.  “Do you really think I’m going to sass you right now?”

Peggy concedes the point as Angie cracks into another pumpkin with a one-two smack, content to stand by and watch…

But Angie is having none of _that_ , which Peggy realizes a moment later when one of the smaller pumpkins is lobbed at her.  Peggy manages to pivot her weight just in time to dodge the squash sailing at her, but Angie is already using her bat as a golf club to launch the next one at her.  “What are you waiting for?” she taunts as Peggy steps out of the way again.  On the next one, Peggy manages to get away from the bulk of it, but several flyaway chunks pelt her shoulder.

And now she’s on a mission, gripping her bat tightly and zeroing in on Angie.  She chases her through the rows of pumpkins, giggling at the childish squeals as they hop from row to row.  “What happened to not sassing me?”

“This isn’t sass!” Angie shouts, finding time to smack another pumpkin her way.  Then, just as Peggy lines up a shot of her own, she aims the cap of her bat towards the sky and declares, “This is war!”

…Right before she takes a large chunk of pumpkin to the gut.

She staggers, reaching into her pocket for a moment before holding her fist tightly to her abdomen.  “I’m hit,” she grunts, falling to one knee and flinging roasted pumpkin seeds from her hand as Peggy approaches.  Finally, she collapses onto the carnage of the jack o’patch in a dramatically coughing heap, eyes closed and tongue hanging out the side of her mouth.

Peggy chuckles above her.  “Walk it off, soldier,” she orders, toeing Angie in the ribs.

Angie digs into her pocket again, a grimace on her face.  She shakes her head and then throws another handful of seeds at Peggy, shouting, “ARTERIAL SPRAY!” then rolls onto her stomach and scrambles away before Peggy can properly recover.

“Oh, I’ll get you for that!” Peggy threatens, darting after her.  She bats away the chunks of pumpkin that Angie launches her way, uncaring of the bits that stick on her clothes and in her hair.

And she truly can’t remember the last time she’s had so much fun…

 

* * *

 

About forty-five minutes later, Angie collapses to the ground as Peggy slams her bat into the final pumpkin.  She’s laying on the bits and chunks of pumpkin shell littered all around the yard, watching the way Peggy braces her legs for the downward swing of her bat.  The way her arms flex, the way her hair bobs and flows with the motion.

 **Crack-a-thunk**!

Then, out of breath and with the biggest smile Angie has ever seen on her, Peggy settles herself on the ground beside her.  She releases the bat, laying on her back and fanning her arms wide as she gazes at the sky.

 _She’s beautiful_ , Angie thinks, watching the labored rise and fall of Peggy’s chest, the flushed glow of her cheeks, and the wide pull of her boldly-colored lips.  And when she finally looks over, Angie fishes what’s left of the baggie of seeds from her pocket and presents them.  “Pumpkin seeds?” she offers, already tossing a few in her mouth and crunching away.

Peggy doesn’t hesitate, warmly holding Angie’s gaze as she reaches to collect a few seeds.  “Thank you,” she says, quietly, and Angie can’t help but smile at the sincerity twinkling in her eyes.


	6. Bonfire Night Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This thing was getting WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY too long, so I had to split it. Here's the first part, and the second should be coming in a handful of days.

_“There are plenty of ways to deal with your husband’s passing that don’t involve shacking up with the neighborhood dyke, Ms. Rogers.”_

_“It’s Carter,” Peggy replies icily.  “And thank you for your concern, Mr. Wicker, but it won’t be needed.”_

 

* * *

 

“Of all the nerve,” Peggy seethes as she shoves her way through her front door.  She stomps through the house until she reaches the living room where she throws her keys against the back of the couch with as much force as she can.  Sadly, the jingling of the keys as they thud against the padding is less than satisfying and only serves to make her angrier.

“Of all the _bloody nerve_!” she roars, and she forces every last ounce of air from her lungs with the exclamation until she can feel her face turning red with the effort.  And every inch of her absolutely _burns_ with fury, blood pounding ferociously through her veins, and her breath coming in angry huffs through her clenched teeth.

Then, shaking fists held tightly at her side, she paces (mostly to keep herself from throwing anything she might later regret breaking).  In a dizzying spiral, her thoughts move from wondering if they’d truly made such a spectacle of themselves the other day, to worrying that she’d inadvertently drawn some very unwanted attention to Angie, to again seething that her neighbor would even have the _audacity_ to comment on Angie’s personal affairs.  “As if it’s any of his business.”

Her stomach twists an instant later.  What if the attention—the scrutiny—really _is_ unwanted?  Smaller communities can be cruel, after all, and gossip tends to spread like wildfire in such areas.

What if she’s just made Angie’s life that much harder?

And the more she thinks about it, the more she wants to kick herself.  Of _course_ , it seems odd.  She’d never been the social one of the pair while Steve was _alive_ , and even after he died that didn’t change.  Now, suddenly, the neighbors see her running around like a giggling madwoman with Angie and…  “Well, why _wouldn’t_ they assume?”

_Especially if Angie is the neighborhood…_

Peggy stands frozen for a beat, then slowly sits on the couch, ashamed of herself as the all-important _if_ presents itself in big, bold letters in her mind.  Her face falls into her hands, and, quietly, she groans, “Oh, my God…” feeling like an idiot for letting herself get hung up on a giant pile of _what if’s_.

And, really…what if?

That’s the real question, isn’t it?

_What if?_

But…does it really matter?

Gay or not, Angie is her friend, and _damn it_ , it would be a cold day in Hell before Peggy let some old man cow her into seeing her any less!

And so, with a burning determination to do… _something_ , Peggy grabs her keys off the couch and makes for the door.

 

* * *

 

The next morning finds Peggy outside bright and early, unloading an assortment of masonry supplies from the back of her Jeep and setting them on a pallet in her back yard.

She can’t help feeling a little odd as she does—a little _off_ —and her mind inevitably finds its way to Steve.  Taking the time to really think about it, she realizes she hasn’t had any real projects since he died…  In fact, she’s made a point of it.  It was always something they’d done together, and doing anything of the sort without him had always felt wrong.  More than that, it had been painful to even _think_ of starting any projects without him.

And so, for what feels like the thirtieth time since she’d ended up at the home improvement store last evening, Peggy questions what _exactly_ she’s doing.

At least, until she hears Angie calling to her, a sweet and groggy, “What’re you doin’?” carrying gently to her ears.  Angie’s not quite dressed yet, shuffling through the yard in heavy-looking pajamas and a robe, big puffy slippers protecting her feet from the chill of the air.  Honestly, Peggy isn’t even certain her eyes are _open_ until she’s close enough to smell the steaming coffee she’s clutching.

Half a second later, Peggy’s gut twists and her heart leaps into her throat as she recalls the minor confrontation with Mr. Wicker the night before.  Stubbornly, she pushes the thought away—she’s not going to bring it up and cause unnecessary drama—and greets Angie with a smile.  “It’s Bonfire Night,” she tells her, simply.

Seemingly unimpressed, Angie looks to Peggy’s collection of materials.  It takes her several moments, and a decidedly pensive sip of her coffee, but she finally asks, “So, you’re building a fire pit?”

“I was actually hoping you’d join me this evening, once it’s finished.”

Gooseflesh prickles at her arms and, oddly, at her checks the moment a slow smile spreads across Angie’s face, though she chooses to ignore the sensation, with some effort.

“Yeah, okay,” Angie agrees easily, some of that typical twinkle finding its way into her eyes.  “Tell you what.  I have to run some errands in town, but I should be back early this afternoon.  I’ll come give you a hand when I get back.”

“All right.  I’ll be here.”

With one more brilliant smile, Angie offers a tiny wave and shuffles back to her house, sipping at her coffee the whole way.

 

* * *

 

That afternoon, Peggy quickly finds out that Angie’s version of “help” is sitting back and making fun of the dirt on the seat of her pants.

“Really, Peg.  How did you manage _handprints_ on your ass?”

“Don’t be rude,” Peggy tells her, resolutely ignoring the memory of Mr. Wicker whenever she thinks of Angie looking at her backside.

From there, it only takes a couple more hours to finish up the fire pit, Angie helping to lay the wedged blocks once Peggy is finished tamping down the sand and gravel.  Then, before laying the capstones in place, they carefully insert a steel liner and tap it in with a mallet.

“I want to properly redo this next year,” Peggy says when it’s all finished, checking that it’s all still level.  “Get some mortar between these blocks.”

“That’s a good plan,” Angie agrees.  “But what are you planning for _tonight_?”

Peggy looks up from the small bubble in the level, mildly confused.  “Beg pardon?”

A chuckle, and that mischievous glint appears in Angie’s eyes.  “You’re gonna put a fire in it.  Then what?”

“I…”  Then what, indeed, Peggy wonders.  “I hadn’t quite thought beyond the fire, to be honest.”

Angie giggles, and Peggy can’t help smiling at the tiny snort as she stands.  “And here I was thinking you’d have it all planned out!” Angie teases.

With a wry smirk, Peggy fires back, “Oh, don’t be fooled by the accent, darling.  I’m making this up as I go along.”

“Tell you what,” Angie starts after a long, hearty laugh. Then, she gives Peggy a very pointed onceover.  “You head in and get cleaned up and I’ll take care of the rest.”

“I don’t know…”

“Oh, come on.  Don’t tell me you’re thinking of eating out?”

For one agonizing moment, Peggy’s brain stumbles over the obvious innuendo, wondering if Angie had meant it as such.  “Uh… No, of course not,” she mumbles, already heading towards her house.  A moment later, she spins back, desperate to diffuse any awkwardness she’s caused.  “I mean,” she starts, before her eyes fall on Angie, who is barely containing her mirth.

In that moment, Peggy realizes that, yes, Angie _had_ meant “eating out” as an innuendo.  And a very _deliberate_ one, at that.

So, she takes a breath, mustering as much unaffected sass as she can, and says, “I mean, if you really want to spoil me so badly…”  Then, she turns on her heel and heads inside for a much-needed shower.

 

* * *

 

After a heavenly shower—because who doesn’t enjoy a nice, steamy wash after a day of hard work—and a good fifteen minutes in her closet, Peggy finally makes her way back outside.  She feels strange, and a little alien to herself, in the loose, black scoop neck, tan cardigan, and jeans.  Even the suede boots seem like they’re too much…  Like she’s trying too hard to be _casual_.

But Angie always seems to know how to put her at ease, the blessed thing, and with a quick smile sent her way from the fire pit Peggy finds her nerves settling.

“I was beginning to wonder,” Angie teases, her tone light.  “Must have been a good shower.”

Again, the gooseflesh tickles its way up her arms when she sees the glint of mischief in Angie’s gaze, the sensation even finding its way up her neck.  “It was,” she agrees awkwardly, making a beeline for the fire pit, and wondering _what on Earth_ has gotten into her. 

She’s surprised to see such a hearty blaze already, and even more surprised to see the food already cooking on a grate placed across the top.  And goodness, does it ever look delicious—steaks sizzling away; corn cobs steaming as their husks brown; and two more mystery items hidden by the foil they’re cooking in.  On top of that, two reclining lawn chairs sit near the fire, along with a collapsible table for food prep not four feet away. Whatever she’d been expecting, it certainly hadn’t been this.  Angie had clearly been busy, though it makes Peggy wonder exactly how long she’d actually taken in the shower.

“Don’t worry,” Angie says, as if reading her mind.  “I already had most of this prepped for tonight.”

“Enough for two?” Peggy fires back.

“What can I say?  I was hopeful.”  A quick wink, and Peggy can feel the goosebumps rising on her cheeks.  And even with the thought of Mr. Wicker in the back of her mind, she can’t help the pleased smile that pulls at her lips.

 

* * *

 

Their chatter while supper is cooking is…oddly comfortable for Peggy.  And not only comfort _able_ , but…comfort _ing_.  A strange thought, to be sure, though she can’t say she’s any sort of surprised, because somewhere between the crop circles and the pumpkins, Peggy found herself _looking forward_ to spending time with Angie, and she’s not especially sure when it happened…

She spends the majority of the meal (when it’s finished) considering the change in their relationship—and what might have changed in herself.

Sadly, though, no matter which way she turns it in her mind, she’s always met with the thought of Mr. Wicker, his voice replaying in her mind over and over.  It disgusts her, the way he was so crude and callous.  To call Angie a—

“You okay?”

Peggy snaps her head up to meet Angie’s concerned gaze, the white-hot feeling of the anger that had been boiling under her skin mere moments before seeming to melt its way down her spine.  She’s left feeling oddly adrift, and unsure what she ought to be feeling _now_.  She’s angry--so, _so angry_ —with Mr. Wicker for poking into things that are none of his business; she’s upset with herself for letting him get under her skin in the first place; and she’s ashamed, because she’s said nothing of the incident to Angie…

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Peggy blurts.  And really…what _is_ she doing?  And how many times can she ask herself that question before she has an answer?

She built a fire pit…what, out of defiance?  To show Mr. Wicker that she doesn’t care what he thinks of the people she chooses to spend her time with?

“Hey…” Angie practically whispers, and it takes Peggy a moment to realize she’s crouched beside her chair now.  She gently tugs at the plate in her hands, which Peggy only now realizes is woefully unfinished, saying, “Let me take this and wrap it up for you; you’re looking a little pale…”

And then, confused and sick-feeling and dry-mouthed, Peggy finds her courage.  Just as the plate slides from her fingers, she looks Angie directly in the eyes—begging her to somehow understand _whatever_ this is that’s going on with her right now—and says, almost desperately, “Mr. Wicker paid me a visit last night.”

The statement hangs in the air between them, heavy in a way Peggy hadn’t expected.  It’s clear by the look on her face that Angie has had more than enough dealings with Mr. Wicker to infer what might have been said during that visit, and, after a moment, a mask of cool indifference slides onto her face.  “I see…” she says, standing tall with the plate.  Then, more solemnly, “Look…I’m real sorry, Peg…  But I know how this goes.  I’ll—I’ll get these wrapped up for you.  Sorry…”

The moment Angie turns, Peggy’s stomach hits the ground.  “Angie!” she calls, and in the time it takes her to scramble out of the lawn chair, Angie is half-way across the yard.  “Why—” she squeaks a bit as she trips over and topples the chair, “—damn!  Why on earth are you apologizing?”  With a half-jog, Peggy catches up to Angie at her patio.  “Angie?” she tries again, reaching for Angie even as Angie reaches for the door.  “How _what_ goe—”

She just barely misses her, the bang of the door echoing around their homes, and, shocked and shaking, stands staring at the storm door that's just slammed in her face.


	7. Bonfire Night Part 2

_She just barely misses her, the bang of the door echoing around their homes, and, shocked and shaking, stands staring at the storm door that’s just slammed in her face._

She tries one more time to call for Angie, but her voice isn’t working.

 _God_ … she wants to scream…

She wants to cry…

She wants to run away and hide and hope that this will all blow over, but she can’t help the feeling that if she doesn’t do something _now_ , she’ll lose whatever goodness Angie has been bringing to her life.  And so, with a steadying breath, she grasps the handle of the storm door and lets herself into Angie’s home.

Inside, the lights are still off, and Peggy has to pause for a moment to orient herself.  “Angie,” she calls into the darkness, even knowing that Angie must want to be alone.  “Please, don’t shut me out…”

A sigh through the dark, and Peggy hears slight movement to her left.  Then, Angie’s voice, equal parts sullen and hopeful, asks, “Don’t you want me gone?”

Peggy can’t quite tell if her heart is in her throat or her feet, but suddenly Angie’s behavior outside makes so much more sense, and all she can manage to say is, “ _God_ , no!”

“But Mr. Wicker—”

“I don’t care about him!” she practically shouts, shocking even herself with the amount of vehemence in her voice, but somehow it spurs her on.  “He can say what he likes; I don’t care!”

A heavy silence hangs between them in the blackness, Peggy’s heart pounding in her ears.  She has no idea what Angie might be thinking—she can’t see her face to even guess…

Until her voice carries to her ears in a distrusting whisper.  “…But you did,” she says.  And it’s true…Peggy _had_ cared to a degree.  She’s been bothered all day, though it’s taken her all this time to realize that she’s not so much worrying that Angie might be gay, but over the uncertainty of it all.  That if she really wants to avoid the scrutiny of their community that she might…

That she might just leave her all alone again…

“I did…” Peggy agrees somberly.  “I’m so sorry.”

But she doesn’t want to lose Angie over this.  Not over something like this…

“He said—” She starts, stepping forward into the darkness.  “He just showed up and told me…”  _No_.  She’s not going to say it.  Angie doesn’t need to hear something like that coming from her.  “…and I was just—just so _angry_!”

She trips over a chair, knocking her shin against the legs when she tries to right it, and grunts, “Bloody…damn!” under her breath before resuming her blind trek across Angie’s kitchen to find her.

“So, I... I—I built a _fire pit_!” she says incredulously.  “Because I…  Well, I wanted to…”

Still in her steps now, and trembling besides, Peggy sighs and quietly admits, “I was afraid.”  And suddenly, she feels more alone than she has in three months…

“Angie, please,” she calls, low and strained.  “I was afraid, but I don’t _care_!  Not one bit.  I could never…  Just…please don’t leave me alone again…”

A sniffle is her first clue that Angie is close, the second being the warm sensation of skin on skin at her wrist.  “I mean,” Angie begins, and Peggy can hear the tears on her voice.  “If you really want me to spoil you so badly…”

Wordlessly, Peggy gathers Angie against her, the two of them awkwardly fitting themselves together in the dark.  And once they’re sorted, Angie clutches to Peggy with shaking hands, sobbing unreservedly against her chest.  Peggy finds it an odd comfort, that, even after the disastrous turn the evening had taken, Angie can find comfort with her.  So, she holds her tightly, rubbing circles over her back and clutching her head to her chest.

She knows her heart is pounding in Angie’s ear, but she can’t help but hope that the sound of it is a comfort to her, just as Angie’s had been to her in the beginning…

 _Oh_ … she thinks in a moment of realization, bending low to whisper in Angie’s ear.  “I care about you,” she tells her in a whisper.  “I don’t care what that old bigot says.  I care about you, and nothing Mr. Wicker does can change that.”

And with a snort, Angie quips, “More like Mr. _Dicker_.”

It’s strange, the way the tension and emotion can just melt away in an instant, and they spend a moment chuckling together over the joke.  Then, Angie extricates herself from Peggy’s grasp, wiping at her face as she pops the refrigerator for some light.  “I guess I’d better get to packaging your leftovers.”

“I appreciate it.”

It doesn’t take her long, a benefit of an entire cupboard full of Tupperware, Peggy suspects, and in moments, she’s handing over a container saying, “You know, we still have an apple crumble over the fire, out there…”  An invitation to spend a little more time together, though she sounds uncertain about it…

Peggy, however, feels surer in herself than she has in a long time, and, with a small smile, says, “All right.  Let me take these over to my fridge and I’ll be right out.”

Angie follows her outside, but before she can quite make it to her house to put the container away, Angie grabs her attention again.  “Peggy,” she mumbles, clearly embarrassed.  “Uh…You might want to grab a jacket or something while you’re at it.”  Before Peggy can ask why, she squares her shoulders and bashfully confesses, “Your girls are distracting on a good day, let alone when I’ve been crying into them.”

In the time it takes her heart to jump, a warm flush covers her chest and works its way up her neck.  Out of reflex, she looks down at herself, studying her cleavage for a moment.  “Yes… They are rather exquisite, aren’t they?” she asks, not at all surprised when, absolutely flabbergasted, Angie’s mouth drops open.

Then, with a mischievous smile of her own, Peggy makes for her house with the Tupperware container in hand.

 

* * *

 

When Peggy goes back outside—this time wearing a scarf to spare Angie’s sanity—Angie is nowhere to be seen.  And for a moment, she panics, terrified that Angie’s changed her mind and decided to stay in.  But before she gets too far along any particular line of thinking, Angie reappears with an armful of blankets.

Sheepishly, she shrugs as she approaches.  “Sorry.  It’s getting kind of cold, but I’m not really ready to call it a night just yet…”

Relieved, Peggy offers to lay a large quilt on the ground while Angie dishes up the dessert—a honeyed apple and oat crumble.  When she’s finished, she gratefully accepts a small plate of dessert, and they both sit on the quilt to eat, Angie immediately cocooning herself in a large, blue-and-cream afghan.

The apple crumble is amazing—as everything else Angie has ever made her—though the hint of butterscotch is a surprise.

“Schnapps,” Angie confides with a wink.  “My secret ingredient.”

“Well, it’s fantastic.”

Except...Angie doesn’t seem to think so, poking at slices of apple with the tip of her fork.  And even when Peggy’s finished her plate, Angie’s is virtually untouched…

“…Hey, Peg?” Angie says suddenly, making an obvious effort to look Peggy directly in the eye.  “I’m gay.”

A nod, even as she puzzles over why Angie would be worrying about that now.  “I know…”

“I just…wanted to say it.  We didn’t, you know?  And I didn’t want to leave it…”  Angie looks so small right now.  She looks so…afraid.  Is this what she’d looked like in the dark of her kitchen, before, Peggy wonders.

Then, voice as small as she looks, Angie asks, “Are we still friends?”

It makes Peggy’s heart stop for a moment, that she’s still so worried that Peggy will want nothing to do with her.  “Oh, darling…” she says, scooting closer and wrapping Angie in her arms.  “Of course, we are.”


	8. First Steps

Chapter 8:  First Steps

 

The following afternoon finds Angie pacing her home like a nervous rabbit.

She sits on the couch, with her ankle resting on her knee and her foot bouncing wildly through the air.  She stares into space, gnawing on her fingernails until the chime of her grandmother’s old clock snaps her back to reality and she shoots up from the couch, determined to find some way to distract herself.

She decides to make fudge, and though the overall process is short, she has to concentrate to follow the oddball instructions her grandmother had given her ages ago.  _Don’t stir it too much or it’ll turn to sugar!_ is written in red ink on the recipe card, and Angie can nearly hear her grandmother’s voice in her mind.  Sadly, though, it takes a grand total of twenty minutes to make, and Angie finds herself without a distraction all too soon.

“Cookies!” Angie announces to the kitchen table with a snap.  Cookies are always fantastically involved, and they take longer, too!  Only…she doesn’t account for the bake time.  The downtime in which she inevitably finds herself thinking of every way Peggy could suddenly change her mind about their friendship.  Until the timer dings, at least, then she swaps baking sheets, sets the cookies on a cooling rack, drops the next batch of cookie dough, and begins the waiting all over again.

She paces again after finishing with the cookies, stopping at each window and staring out at the road, or the yard, or the neighbors’ houses.  Somewhere along the way, she ends up with a duster in her hand, and steadily falls into stress cleaning from there.  By the time she’s done the bathrooms are spotless, she could eat off her kitchen floor, and there’s not a speck of dust to be found in the whole house.  The only thing left to tackle are the dishes, and Angie moves to them almost automatically.

She doesn’t even realize she’s staring towards Peggy’s house through the window above the sink until she spots her pulling into her driveway and getting out of her car.

Then, suddenly, Angie’s middle is soaked, and a handful of curses fly from her mouth as she hurriedly turns off the water and dries the cookie sheet she’d been washing.  Disgusted with herself, she sets the stupid thing on the counter and dabs at her shirt with the dish towel.  It does nothing for her, of course, and a moment later she tosses it onto the cookie sheet with another curse.

And just as she’s taking in a deep breath to calm herself, a knock sounds at the back door.

Panic flares in her again, because obviously it’s Peggy knocking.  But what if she’s come to tell Angie she’s changed her mind?  That she’s had the day to think it over, and she doesn’t see their association working out for either of them.  Or that she’s reconsidered, and she is absolutely _not_ comfortable being friendly with someone with such _tendencies_.

Apparently, she spends a little too much time turning it all over in her head, because Peggy knocks again, and Angie can even vaguely hear her voice through the door.  It’s enough to kick her butt into gear, at least, and a moment later she’s opening the door to greet Peggy.

The greeting doesn’t quite leave her throat when she sees her, stuck on the shine of her eyes and the almost bashful way she smiles and looks to the Tupperware in her hand.

“I’ve brought your bowl,” Peggy proclaims, offering said item.  “Sorry I haven’t washed it.”

Angie shrugs and asks, “You just get off work?”  Of course, it’s more for the sake of conversation than actual curiosity—Angie already knows she’s just gotten home.

The hum of affirmation comes across as somehow distracted, Peggy’s eyes landing anywhere but Angie’s face for the moment.  She settles for her shoes, taking in a deep breath before asking, “Angie?”  Her tone is serious, and the sudden, quiet weight of her voice sets Angie even more on edge than she’d been before.

She clenches her jaw and tries to brace herself for it—the rejection she’s been dreading all day.  She only hopes that Peggy is swift about it and that she won’t have to suffer through it for long.

“I wonder if…”  And when Peggy’s eyes finally raise to Angie’s again, they are practically gleaming with unabashed hopefulness.  “I might invite myself to dinner?”

Angie can’t quite find the words, only managing to utter a confused, “Uh,” at first.  Dinner had been so far and away from anything she had been expecting that she can’t quite find it in her mind to function.  She can feel herself staring, frozen in place and gaping like a fish.

And then the slightest brush of fingertips against her wrist, and a flash of concern across Peggy’s face, manage to kickstart her brain.  “Uh, yeah!” she blurts suddenly.  “I—” she motions behind herself and steps aside to let Peggy in.  “I mean, I haven’t—” she eyes the table, then the fridge, then the stove.  “Yeah!  Come on in!”

In a different kind of panic, Angie wracks her brain to come up with a dinner plan, and mentally berates herself for being in such a tizzy earlier and forgetting to plan something in the first place.  “Give me just a minute to see what I have in here,” Angie says, already heading for the fridge as Peggy is toeing out of her shoes.  “I’ve been cleaning all day.”

Peggy stops what she’s doing immediately, hand half way out of her jacket sleeve as she breathes a remorseful, “Oh, Angie.”  She slides her arm back in and adjusts the collar, saying, “I don’t want to impose.”

“No, no!” Angie assures her, waving Peggy away from the door and making sure that she’s removing her jacket again before she starts digging through the refrigerator.  “Christ, English, you can have dinner with me any time!”

There’s nothing in the fridge, of course, and she reprimands herself with a muttered, “Damn it, Ange…”  Even if it had just been for herself, she should have gotten something down to thaw ages ago.  Now all she has to work with is frozen meat, for all the good it’ll do her, and a handful of random veggies.  She could probably manage a simple stir fry, but—

“Do you really mean that?” Peggy asks softly, voice teetering on the edge of vulnerable.  Angie turns and closes the fridge to watch her hang her jacket on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, trying to read her expression.  Unfortunately, Peggy has the best damn poker face she’s seen since Mr. Bosworth’s out at the senior center, and she’s left with little more than the odd and wary look in her eyes.

Angie is careful to keep her tone gentle and reassuring when she says, “ ‘Course I do.”  She watches Peggy nod, as if to reaffirm it in her mind, and then tells her, “You don’t even have to ask.”

And there’s that beautiful, bashful smile again, accompanied by a light flush on her cheeks, and Angie can’t help admiring the effect, almost feeling as though she’s overstepped some kind of boundary.  She can’t quite seem to figure out where that boundary is, though, and even as she basks in the quiet warmth of Peggy’s practically whispered, “Thank you,” she finds herself puzzling over their relationship and how exactly they fit together.  Her pondering only lasts a few moments, though, as she reminds herself with a mental shake that she has to contend with dinner.

That is, she has to admit to Peggy that she is woefully under-prepared for dinner, and she does so by nodding rather flippantly to the fridge and saying, “Well, there’s not a damned thing in there to cook!”  All told, she’s more than a little embarrassed about it, especially after showing off with the fire the night before.  But there’s nothing for it, and all she can do is try to salvage the evening.  “Do you mind a trip to the store?”

“We could order pizza.”

Angie almost snorts at the suggestion.  “I’m not gonna feed you _junk food_ ,” she huffs, somewhere between appalled and slightly offended.

“My treat,” Peggy insists, already reaching for her phone.  “And you can show off next time.”  It only takes her a moment to punch in the phone number and place the device next to her ear.  “We’ll even plan it, so I don’t surprise you.”

“Oh, that’s mean,” Angie half whispers, shaking her head at Peggy.  She ignores the blithe little chuckle and scowls a moment longer before grumbling, “Fine.  But you’re in for it next time!”

“Tomorrow?” Peggy mouths, apparently not wanting to confuse whoever had picked up the other end of the call.  Then she turns a bit, and says, “Yes, hello.  I’d like to place an order for delivery, please.”  Her gaze returns to Angie as she listens to the practiced spiel from the other end, and quirks her head ever-so-slightly to the side.

It takes Angie a moment to realize she’s waiting for an answer, which she’s all-too-happy to give in the form of a smile and a wink as Peggy places their pizza order.  “Come on, English,” she says, barely above a murmur.  “You don’t even have to ask.”


End file.
